


Defy Gravity

by Tashilover



Category: Endeavour
Genre: Alternate Universe- Wings, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: In the winged community, white wings are considered a deformity.Wing!fic





	1. Chapter 1

The Oxford Police precinct was not designed for the winged. The doorways were thin, the support beams awkwardly placed, and with the desks pushed too close together, on a day when the building was fully staffed, bumped elbows and knees were bound to happen.

From his spot in the office, Thursday sat back and watched Morse shimmy his way through the tightest areas, lifting up his arms and trying his best to keep his wings in and out of the way. The back of his feathers always brushed against something, occasionally knocking over a pencil case or empty tea cup if it was too near. Last week his wings dragged over a freshly inked typewriter, staining the bottom of his feathers black, which then stained the back of his trousers. The men found it hilarious.

Morse got out of the thick traffic of desks without incident. He took a quick second for himself, sighing and shaking out his wings. He walked over to the filing cabinet. As he pulled out a drawer and shifted through the many pages within, one of the younger detectives, Gerald Drake, walked past him. He stuck his hand out and let his fingers run across the back of Morse's wings.

Morse stiffened. He twisted towards Drake, his cheeks turning red from indignity. Drake kept walking like nothing happened, passing out files to the others, chatting in a friendly manner. Seeing an already lost battle, Morse closed the file cabinet with a clang, hunched his wings in and stalked back to his desk.

More than once Morse has made complaints of the men touching his wings without his consent. He was not a pet. Despite repeated warnings, the men would 'accidentally' bump into him as they passed, sometimes reaching out and plucking a feather. 

Thursday wrote down Drake's name and made a note to speak to him later.

 

 

A winged birth only happened out of one of three thousand people. In Oxford, Morse was one of fifteen people who had wings.

Thursday's met winged people before. Across the street lived Mrs. McGennis, who was seventy-two and had wings the color of cream-coffee. Thursday's great uncle Horris also had wings, but was forced to amputate one when he got cancer. The royal family themselves prided on the fact that every member was born with wings- though it's been highly debated if they all had the ability to fly.

"Can you fly?" Thursday asked Morse one day during lunch.

"Yeah," Morse said as he drizzled vinegar over his chips.

"I've never seen you."

"It's tiring. It takes a lot of energy to keep aloft, and there's not a lot of space to take off and land easily. The street I live on is too dense for my wings."

"... I wouldn't mind seeing you fly one day."

Morse paused in his chewing of chips. His fingers were glossy with grease. "What brought this on suddenly?"

"It's just something I've been thinking of recently. Sam is also doing a report on the royal family and has been filling the house with books about wing colours. For example, I believe you're the only person I've met who has white wings."

Every winged person Thursday has come across had colour in their feathers. Even the most faded of wings still held their former hues in them. Morse was the only person he's known with pitch white wings; not a single splash of brown or grey to be seen.

Embarrassed, Morse looked down back to his half-eaten lunch.

"Did I say something offensive?" Thursday asked.

"No," Morse said. "The... colour white... in the winged community is actually considered a deformity."

"What, why?"

"Your wing colour and pattern is supposed to represent what family you're from, your personality, your... status in life. Because mine are white, I have nothing to show for it. It's like not having a last name."

"But you can fly. I don't see that as a deformity."

"You're not winged. There's a million little signals passed through your wings. It's hard to explain unless you have them."

Thursday sensed that was the end of the conversation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Body horror for winged individual

The woman was beautiful in death. She looked like she was in a renaissance painting, every strand of hair perfect, her clothes fanning out as if caught in strong breeze. She looked so serene.

Except she was found on the floor of a marble crypt, and her neck a mess of bruises. Her wings had been forcibly stretched out besides her, every feather plucked off of her like she'd been a chicken raised for slaughter.

DeBryn stepped back. "Cause of death: strangulation. Thankfully she was dead before her killer plucked her feathers off."

"Yet there's no feathers to be found," Thursday said. The checkered pattern floor was clean. "Her wings are massive, it would've taken hours to pluck them off like this. Clearly the body was moved."

DeBryn slipped off his gloves. "I supposed, but I'm not the detective here. Where's Morse?"

"He's outside, talking to witnesses. I don't want him to see this."

"He's not a child, Inspector. Besides, if anyone who'd have the best opinion on this, it would be him."

Thursday sighed. "Yes, you have a good point."

"I always have good points," DeBryn said smugly. "I'll send him in as I pass. Good day, Inspector."

This would be the second time Thursday investigated a winged homicide.

The number one cause of death in winged individuals was trauma from falling. Many of them would fly and find themselves in a sudden updraft, causing them to fly higher than expected. They would get tired, their wings would collapse and they'd fall to their deaths. Last year seventeen people were killed when they flew into power lines.

The first winged murder Thursday experienced was when he was a young cop. Some drunken bugger tried to saw off a man's wing, causing him to bleed out. It was an ugly, horrible death that left Thursday shaken. At the time, the man's wings were the most beautiful he's ever seen. It was like destroying a priceless work of art.

At the sound of Morse's heels clicking on the marble floor, Thursday went out to meet him before he entered.

"Brace yourself," Thursday said, holding up a hand to stop him. "This could be a hate crime."

Morse's wings tightened. "I understand."

Thursday stepped aside to let him through. Morse took one look at the body, gasped and quickly averted his eyes.

"Damn," he bit out. "Goddamn..."

"Do you need to leave-?"

"No, I'm fine. I just... please tell me she was dead before she was defiled like this."

"Yes. DeBryn said she was."

After a moment, Morse forced himself to look. His face darkened, his wings so close to his body they looked like a solid white wall. He walked around the body, observing it carefully.

"I... I don't think this was a hate crime," he said. His throat was thick and he swallowed, clearing it. "I think this was done out of love."

Thursday made a face. "She was defeathered. How can you interpret this as love?"

"Look at her wings. Not a speck of blood is on them. The feathers were removed with precise care. If someone wanted to remove them with violence, there'll broken feathers, barbs and blood everywhere. We should probably look into ex-lovers or anyone who had an obsession with her. She..."

"Are you alright? You're turning colours."

"I need air..."

Morse pushed past him and ran outside. Thursday followed, gesturing to other officers to keep watch over the body.

He found Morse leaning against a tree, shivering uncontrollably. His wings wrapped around him like a blanket, covering his head.

Thursday has seen this behaviour in winged individuals before. This was a coping mechanism, a long forgotten comfort from infancy. Winged mothers would wrap their children in their feathers, letting the softness and individualized scent to calm them.

Thursday was hesitant to touch him. In the all the time they've worked with each other, he's been careful not to touch Morse's wings. The boy faced enough molestation from the men at the precinct, he didn't need that horseshit from his superior officer.

He kept his hands to himself.

"Morse," he said.

"I'm fine..." Morse said, pulling his wings away. He wiped at his eyes. "I'm fine. It's a small panic attack, nothing I can't handle."

"Maybe you should head home-"

"No!" He twirled around to face him. "I want to know why this happened. Who did this to her."

"Fine. But if I feel this is case is compromising you, I will not hesitate pulling you off. Are we clear on this?"

Morse took a breath. He slowly let it loose. "Yes."

"Good. Now let's find out who the victim was."


	3. Chapter 3

It didn't take long to identify the victim. She was Victoria Wendell, a twenty-four year old university student. Her friends said she had gone out to grab coffee at the local café and never came back. The staff at the café confirmed Victoria had come in for a cup, but she came alone and left alone.

Morse and Thursday spent the next couple of hours questioning her friends, professors, and eventually, breaking the news to Victoria's parents.

By the time they got back to the precinct, it was well after dark. Thursday was exhausted. His suit stunk from the day's activities, and a small headache was brewing behind his eye from lack of food. He was eager to get home, to slip under the covers and sleep for a million years. He still had to type up a few necessary papers.

Morse looked just as spent. His wings always stood straight and tall behind him, but as he walked into the precinct, they drooped like limp noodles.

"You should go home," Thursday said tiredly to Morse. "No need for the both of us to be here."

"I'll stay. Besides, I'd like to take advantage of the space here."

"Space?"

"I need to oil my wings," he explained. "My flat is too small for my wingspan. I'd do it here more often but..."

"The others harass you. I get it."

"I'll make us some coffee."

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday didn't start on the reports right away. He wanted to take a moment for himself, even for just five minutes. He sat down in his office, pulled out his pipe. His hands shook so badly, he couldn't steady them long enough to light the pipe.

"Damn," he muttered, when he failed to light it for the fourth time. Earlier he told Morse he'd pull him if the case got too much. Maybe Thursday should follow his own damn advice.

Up by the cabinet was the only photo Thursday had of Mickey Carter. In that photo Carter was forever twenty-seven years old, handsome and smiling deviously. It was a decent picture, though it didn't show off Carter's most defining feature: his stunning, bright blue wings. When he walked down the street women would stop and stare at him like he was the sun.

Thursday bit down on his pipe, trying not to let the memories overwhelm him. When they found Carter's broken, twisted body in the street, his wings had been amputated. The bastards tossed them in the Thames.

Did Morse know? He probably did. It didn't take much detective work to look into Mickey's file and read his autopsy report. Thursday was plagued with nightmares for weeks, dreaming about blood raining from the sky as decapitated birds laid at his feet. Seeing poor Victoria Wendell on that floor with her feathers missing brought everything back.

When Thursday failed to light his pipe again, he huffed and shoved it away into his desk drawer, slamming it shut. He might as well have some coffee instead.

He walked out, expecting to see Morse in the kitchen. The coffee machine sat empty on the unlit stove. Morse was nowhere to be seen.

"Morse?" Thursday called out. In the silence of the precinct, his voice carried.

Morse's voice carried back. _"I'm here! I'm in the lockers!"_

"I thought you were making coffee," Thursday said, going to him.

_"I got distracted."_

"With what?"

Thursday entered the locker rooms. He stopped.

Morse was standing in the middle of the dry, empty showers. He'd taken off his jacket and shirt, leaving them on a nearby hanger. Above, two meager light bulbs illuminated the greying tiles of the showers, painting the room in deep shadows.

Here in the open space, Morse was able to stretch his wings to their fullest. Thursday has only seen them pulled in tight. Here, he now realized how massive Morse's wings were. They looked like they could take up the entire space of the showers. The light bounced off of his feathers, giving them a strange, almost-ethereal glow. Thursday could see each individual feather, every barb, and as Morse moved, the light moved with him, shimmering like an ocean wave.

"Oh..." said Thursday quietly.

"I've been neglecting oiling my wings for the past week," explained Morse. "I wanted to wait, but they need it, desperately."

 _Oh,_ Thursday's brain supplied in a less impressive tone. That's why it looked like Morse's wings were glowing. They were wet with oil. How silly of him to think...

"Actually, I'm glad you're here," said Morse. "Can you help me? I can't get the underside here..."

"Um... alright. What do you need me to do?"

Morse held up a bottle of oil. "Just spread this over the dry areas."

Thursday shrugged off his jacket, placed it aside, and rolled up his sleeves, taking the bottle of oil from Morse.

"Here," said Morse, turning around to show his back. "I can't reach... right around my shoulders..."

Thursday popped the cap and squirted out a small amount of oil onto his hand. It smelled faintly like peppermint.

In the past Thursday only touched Morse's wings out of necessity or accident. Thursday made sure to never let his touch linger, pulling his arm away quickly. Even Carter complained about how often people would stroke his feathers without his consent. Though Morse gave his blessing, Thursday felt a slight twinge of unease in his belly as he moved in closer to Morse's freckled back.

In response, Morse stretched his wings out further, giving better access.

Thursday reached out, carefully slipping his hand in between the feathers. Morse tensed.

"Cold?" Thursday asked.

"No," said Morse. "Just... I know you're not going to try to rip a feather out but I still expected it."

"Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes, it's fine. I'm fine."

"Alright."

It was like touching air. The feathers were so soft and smooth, and the longer Thursday touched them, the more he was reminded of high quality silk. Thursday did his best to focus on the task at hand. He would pull back, pour more oil upon his hand and continue, each time running his fingers through the feathers softly. No wonder mothers wrapped their children in their wings. It must feel like heaven.

After a few minutes, Thursday pulled back. His hand tingled, wanting more. "I'm done."

Morse sighed in relief and gave his wings a good shudder. The sound it made was like a dozen birds taking flight.

"Thank you," he said. "I feel so much better."

"You're welcome. I guess I'll start on the coffee, hmm?"

As Thursday walked back to the kitchen, wiping the oil away on a towel, he realized his hand didn't tremble anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: winged body horror?

"I feel like we're missing something," Morse muttered sourly. He stepped back from the chalk board where photos of Victoria were tapped and lines of chalk connected them. "I feel like it's staring right in our faces and we're not seeing it."

Thursday rubbed at his eyes. They've been at this case for three days now and everyone involved was run ragged. Thursday himself has been wearing the same suit for twenty-four hours now and it was slowly turning into thirty-six. He's only been home long enough to eat, sleep, and then it was back to work.

Morse had a point. They've questioned everyone Victoria Wendell could've passed on the street and no one seemed like the type of person to murder and then defeather a winged person. As far as they could tell, the victim was well-liked and had no problems with anyone.

Morse slapped his hand loudly against the chalk board. "What are we missing?"

"Alright, step back before you erase everything," Thursday snapped at him. "Lord... this is not a big conspiracy. Someone murdered this girl because of her wings. That part is obvious. Let's start from there. Why would someone murder a winged person?"

Morse shook his head in disgust. "In war, winged individuals were murdered so they wouldn't act as spies. During the witch hunts, those with black wings were executed."

"Modern day times, Morse. What motivates someone to murder a winged person now?"

"Jealousy," he said. "Uh... eugenics, sometimes."

"Eugenics?"

Morse gave him a dry look. "White wings are considered ugly, remember?"

"Ah."

"But Victoria had beautiful wings. So I don't understand..."

"What do they say?"

"Huh?"

"Her wings," Thursday said. "You said wing patterns and colours have meaning behind it. What did hers say?"

Morse frowned and took a moment to study the picture of Victoria. "Uh... she's fertile. Big wings often indicate your ability to pass on your genes."

"Is that true?"

"Never been proven as far as I know. That doesn't stop people from making that claim, though. The colour in her feathers indicate good health. Her wings are strong, so I wouldn't be surprised if she could carry a good amount of weight while flying..." Morse shook his head. "She's perfect. I have never seen such perfect wings before. Honestly, I'm quite jealous."

Thursday snapped his fingers at him. "That's the motivation."

"Huh?"

"Jealousy. Hell, you said it yourself. You said the removal of her feathers was out of love, but what if it was of jealous love? Someone envied her, someone wanted her wings."

Morse frowned, his eyes narrowing as he thought. His wings snapped to attention before he did. He suddenly rushed over to his notes on his desk, flipping through them. "On Victoria's street," he started. "Is a winged individual. An Albright Jones. I would barely consider him a neighbour as he lives in a completely different building. But I pulled his name when I was going over witnesses. He claims he has never spoken to Victoria."

"Alright, but what makes him stand out from all the others?"

Morse held up his note showing the address. "He has white wings."

 

 

 

 

 

 

A background check revealed Mr. Albright Jones had a history of stalking women, voyeurism, and two years ago, stayed overnight in jail after groping a waitress. It didn't take long to get a warrant.

"Mr. Albright Jones? Open up, it's Oxford Police!"

Thursday waited, hearing the little man shuffle inside his flat. Few seconds later the door opened only a few inches, and Jones's face barely peeked out in the gap. He sniffed. "Can I help you, officers?"

Thursday held up the warrant. "Mr. Jones, we have a warrant to search your flat. Please open up and step aside."

"Um... alright... Give me a second."

He closed the door. He locked it.

Thursday sighed. He braced his shoulder against the door. "Morse, with me!"

With two good hard shoves, the lock gave way and they entered the flat.

Standing in the middle of the room was Jones. With a gasp he stumbled back, his wings crashing against a nearby table, knocking its contents to the floor. In his right hand he held up a gun, his arm shaking as he did so. "Stay back! I'll shoot, I mean it!"

Thursday held up his empty hands. "Mr. Jones, I'm unarmed. Please put down the weapon and let us talk!"

"Stay back!"

Jones moved closer back towards the window. The sun streaming in reflected off of his wings. His feathers sparkled.

"Oh god," Morse groaned. "What have you done?"

It took Thursday a second longer to understand what Morse was referencing to. Jones had white wings, yet they shimmered like gems. That's when Thursday realized Jones had golden feathers slotted into his own wings, giving the illusion of colour.

Thursday shared Morse's horror. _"Are those Victoria Wendell's feathers?"_

"They're mine!" Jones screeched. He cocked back the hammer of the gun. "Get back! Get back!"

He shot off a round erratically, striking the light bulb over Morse's head. As sparks and glass rained down upon Morse, Jones suddenly turned, snapped his small wings in, and threw himself out the open window.

"Goddamn it, no!" Morse screamed. With his hair full of glass, he rushed forward, his arms stretched out to grab him. He missed Jones by a mile, and all that was left behind were a few scattered golden feathers on the floor.

"He flew off!" Morse cried out. He tried to squeeze through the window as well, but his wings were too large to fit through. "Dammit!"

Thursday grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him back. "His wings are too small! He won't fly for long! Let's go!"

They ran out of the flat and into the street. They looked up into the sky just in time to see golden feathers scattering around them like snow. It was a beautiful, morbid sight. High above the streets was Jones. He was a terrible flyer. It looked as if he didn't know how to coordinate his flapping right, and he struggled to stay aloft. With every beat of his wings, more of Victoria Wendell's feathers were shaken loose.

Morse pulled off his coat. "I'm going after him."

"Can you catch up to him?" Thursday asked, taking a step back.

In the showers, Morse's wings were obscured by shadows and dimly lit light bulbs. Out here in the afternoon air, Thursday was greeted by the full majesty of Morse's wing spread. It was like watching a flower bloom. His wings stretched out, his feathers unfurling one by one. The still-wet oil made them look like sharpen knives, and when Morse bent his knees, he huffed.

"Easily."

He shot off the Earth with such force, the resulting gust of wind had Thursday stumbling back. He recovered quickly and stared up at the sky in absolute awe. Morse was flying fast and flying hard, his powerful wings making a booming noise with every beat. He was swiftly catching up to Jones who was barely making any headway.

It was no contest. Morse flew high, his large wings briefly blocking out the sun, and like a hawk descending upon its prey, he suddenly shot down, slamming into Jones, grabbing him around the waist. The momentum sent them into a downward spiral towards the Earth, their wings tangling.

Thursday cried out in alarm and he took off into a sprint. He knew he wouldn't be able to catch up to them at this distance. He knew it was impossible to even catch them before they struck the ground. Rationality was not fueling his thoughts. He ran as fast as he could, his feet pounding the pavement.

Then, just a mere fifteen feet off the ground, Morse's wings snapped out. He gave out a single hard flap, stopping him and Jones from their impending splatter upon the ground. They hovered for a brief second, and then they landed hard. Jones curled in on himself as Morse stood up, taking a step back. His wings were still open in a dominant stance.

"Morse!" Thursday huffed, running up to him. "Lad, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Morse said roughly.

On the ground, Jones sobbed openly. Only a single golden feather clung to his wings.

"I just wanted to be beautiful for once," he cried. "I wanted to be beautiful..."


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday could count on one hand how many times he's visited Oxford's national art museum. He's taken the kids there a few times for homework assignments, and once they got old enough, Thursday never stepped foot in there ever again. Until today.

The morning left the museum mostly empty. There were a few art students sitting in the halls, sketching poses from marble statues, and a couple of tourists with pamphlets in hand. Thursday sat on a bench, hat in hand, waiting patiently. He studied the painting in front of him, trying and failing to understand the point of having so many people naked.

A minute later, someone sat down next to him. "Good morning, sir."

Thursday turned to Morse. "You look well."

That was an absolute lie. Morse looked like he hadn't slept in days. Dark bags were under his eyes, his clothes were wrinkled, and his feathers hadn't been oiled in a while. His wings were frazzled and limp, nothing like the glorious display Thursday saw two weeks ago.

Once Jones was arrested for Victoria Wendell's murder, the press had a field day. The culture of white wings came into light, and suddenly it was as if the entire world was brought onboard with the drama of it all. Now when Morse walked down the street, it wasn't only those with wings who sneered at him, it was the common person as well. What was once a private defect, now was laid out for all the world to see.

It was quite clear Morse was having a hard time being shoved into the public eyes.

"Why did you call me here?" He asked, staring tiredly around at the marble statues.

"I want to show you something," said Thursday. "Follow me."

Thursday walked the downtrodden Morse through the museum, Morse barely giving the priceless art pieces a second look. He was too busy staring miserably at his shoes as he shuffled along, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"I know you're miserable, lad," Thursday said. "But you can't let one person get you like this. You'll drown if you let it."

"That could've easily been me," Morse said. "I got lucky. I grew up in a neighbourhood where no one knew what having white wings meant. But Jones? You read the file. His father disowned him. His wings had been broken twice now. He-"

"Those are not excuses and you know it."

"I'm just saying... he wanted to feel normal. We can dye our wings, we can decorate them, but the white will always come through eventually. Now so many people know what white represents. Nothing."

"White has meaning."

"Of what?"

Thursday stopped suddenly. Morse nearly ran into him and took two stumbling steps back.

Thursday gestured to the far wall.

"This," he said.

Morse looked up.

In front of him was a painting of St. Michael. The archangel was dressed in bright blue roman armor, long flowing white robes, and he was shrouded in an ethereal light. He had a long speak in hand, and he was striking down the legions of hell, stabbing them through the heart. His perfect white wings were unfurled, stretched out wide for all the world to see.

"Do you know who painted this?" Thursday asked.

"Luca Giordano," Morse said. "1663."

"Right. According to the curator, she said Giordano refused to give his angels coloured wings. Even when he was bribed by nobles and members of royalty themselves, he refused. He believed angels would have no ties to those on Earth. Their white wings would be without sin. Flawless."

"I know what you're trying to do, sir," said Morse. "But telling me my wings would've been accepted three hundred years ago doesn't help the current situation."

"I know. But..." He shrugged and continued to study the painting. "I think I know what Giordano was getting at. I can't imagine colour on St. Micheal. His wings are perfect the way they are."

Morse sighed and shuffled forward, taking a spot next to Thursday. In silence they continued to study the painting.

After a minute, Thursday asked, "What does St. Micheal's wings say?"

"Impotence."

Thursday snorted, and he slapped a hand over his mouth when the the noise carried in the silence. "It does not!"

"They're very small," Morse said, shrugging. He was grinning though. "I don't think Giordano really understood winged culture."

"Then what does yours say?"

Morse paused. He lifted them, finally pulling them off the floor, giving them a good shudder. Several broken feathers stuck out, giving his wings an unruly look.

"Sad," he said finally.

"You need better hygiene practices," Thursday said. "Come, I can see you need to oil your wings. You should take pride in your appearance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting Thursday was talking about: https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/st-michael/-gGnTxs2HvmhwA
> 
> I originally wanted to grab one of DaVinci's paintings, but all of his angels had brown/golden wings. XD


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to alltoseek and AstridContraMundum who apparently ~really~ wanted this BORING epilogue of Thursday oiling up Morse's wings. Dunno why, but here ya go ya weirdos

Thursday took Morse home.

"Win?" Thursday called out as soon as he walked across the threshold. "Are you here?"

The house was empty. There was a small note from Win sitting next to the hallway phone. It said she was going out with friends to celebrate a birthday. Dinner was in the fridge and all Thursday needed to was heat it up in the oven.

"My Winny..." Thursday whispered affectionately, putting down the note. He turned to Morse. "Let's go upstairs. We can use the bigger bathroom there."

Even in a standard house, Morse's wings were too big to accommodate comfortably. As he walked up the stairs, the side of his wings dragged across the wallpaper, and he had to make a conscious effort to not knock down the photos hanging.

Once in the bathroom, Morse was able to relax. There was just enough room for him unhinge.

"This is a big bathroom," he remarked, walking in further.

"It was an anniversary gift," Thursday said. "Win always wanted a big bathroom. A place to twirl and relax. Says she feels like a Hollywood starlet. Why don't you go sit on the edge of the tub while I get the oil."

Morse pulled off his suit jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off. He also took off his shoes and socks, putting them aside. He stepped into the tub and sat on the edge, his wings facing outwards.

"Is baby oil alright?" Thursday asked.

"Yes," said Morse. "I can even use olive oil or vegetable oil."

Thursday raised an eyebrow. "Even bacon fat?"

"Yes, but only if I had no other choice."

"Alright, got it," Thursday said. He took a step back away from the medicine cabinet, the bottle of baby oil in hand. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Can you help me pull off the loose feathers first? I have to rid the old ones before starting."

"Alright... is there anything specific I have to do?"

"Run your fingers through my wings. The loose feathers should come off easily."

As Thursday set the bottle down by the sink, Morse unfurled his wings. Immediately they took up the entire space of the bathroom, the top of his right wing bumping into the light fixture.

"Whoa," Thursday said, leaning back.

"Sorry, force of habit." Morse retracted them slightly.

Thursday eyed the wings, noting where most of the feathers stuck out. The majority seemed to be down at the secondary and primary feathers.

"I'll start down here," Thursday said. When he noted acknowledgement from Morse, he reached out touched the feathers. This time Morse didn't flinch.

God _damn_. The feathers felt even softer the second time around. For a long moment Thursday brushed the back of his knuckles against them, unable to comprehend how they could feel this way. Were all winged individuals like this? No, his brain supplied. When he had to pick up Victoria Wendell's stolen feathers for evidence, they did not feel like this. When he accidentally brushed Jones' wings while putting in the back of a police wagon, they didn't feel like this.

Thinking about a dead woman and her murderer brought Thursday back to his senses. He shook off his moment of awe, and started clearing out the broken feathers.

It was fairly easy. As Morse instructed, Thursday dragged his fingers through the wings. Feathers by the dozens fluttered to the floor.

"There's a lot," Thursday mentioned as he moved over to the next wing. "Is this normal?"

"It is," said Morse. "Usually they fall off when flying."

Thursday continued grooming for another five minutes. When no other feathers fluttered to the floor, he stepped back and said, "I think that's it."

Thank goodness. The floor was littered with feathers. "What should I do with these?"

"Toss 'em," said Morse. "They're useless."

"Toss them? It seems like a waste."

"In the past discarded feathers were once used as writing instruments or bed stuffing. According to historians, Genghis Kahn killed so many winged individuals, he slept on a new feather bed every night till the he died. Nowadays it's considered unhygienic and the supply isn't there. You'd need every feather of three grown men to fill a bed."

"...Would it be alright if I kept a few?"

Morse startled. "Why would you want to? They're _white._ "

"They're soft," Thursday countered, ignoring the self-deprecation. "It's... feels very soothing."

"Oh..."

The tops of Morse's ears and shoulders went pink. "If you really want to... I have no objections."

Thursday took a minute to pick out five feathers. He put them aside.

He picked up the bottle of oil. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," Morse breathed. "They're so dry, it's agony."

"Is there a specific place you want me to start?"

"Outside in, please."

Within seconds of touching the feathers, Thursday lost himself again.

Why were they so soft? God, he had never felt anything like this before. He could barely comprehend what he was touching. How could Morse call his wings ugly? They were the most beautiful, incredible wings Thursday has ever seen in his life. He wanted to bury his face in them.

Then he did.

For a long second there was nothing but bliss. But when he heard the intake of breath from Morse, his senses came back to him.

He lurched back, his cheeks burning with shame. "Fuck, I'm sorry, Morse. I didn't mean to-"

"Please, don't stop."

"What?"

Morse turned to look at him over his shoulder. He quivered and repeated, "Please... I... I want you to."

His wings opened more, as if offering themselves to him.

"Please?" Morse said once more.

Thursday was breathing hard. The faint sensation of the feathers could still be felt against his skin. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. This was his bagman, his friend. Morse was in a very vulnerable position right now and Thursday should not take advantage of that.

Yet as Thursday stared into Morse's face, noting his blushing cheeks, his disheveled hair, his quivering lips, Thursday's resolve broke.

He moved forward again, staring at the space between Morse's shoulder blades. The skin was dotted with freckles.

Testing the waters, Thursday gave one single light kiss on Morse's skin. Morse's wings shuddered like a light breeze passing through. Seeing this, Thursday opened his mouth and dragged his tongue close to where the wing connected to the shoulder.

Morse cried out brokenly.

Thursday did it again, prompting another delicious sound out of Morse.

"Are you sensitive here?" He asked. He reached up and rubbed his fingers against the wing joint. Morse's wings certainly liked that. The right wing shot up high, brushing against the ceiling, blocking out the light.

"I had no idea..." Morse gasped. "I've never let anyone touch me..."

Oh god. "Not even doctors?"

"Majority of doctors are not winged. They have no idea what they're doing... they grab too hard, leave bruises... oh fuck, do that again."

Thursday did and Morse bit his lower lip, dragging it out slowly.

Morse looked over his shoulder. His eyelashes were wet with unshed tears. In a small voice he asked, "Do you really think my wings are beautiful?"

Thursday didn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

That did it for Morse.

He suddenly brought his wings up and he turned around, avoiding hitting Thursday in the face with them. He climbed onto Thursday's lap, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and kissed him.

Thursday took him eagerly, grabbing him by the thighs and shifting him into a more comfortable position. He wasn't used to the sensation of kissing someone higher than him, but he didn't mind. Kissing Morse felt good. It felt incredibly good. Thursday trailed his fingers up Morse's naked back, slotting his fingers into the feathers.

Morse gasped against his mouth, giving Thursday the opportunity to slip his tongue inside.

As wonderful as this all was, Thursday's dick was getting crushed underneath Morse's weight. In order to unzip himself, Thursday would have to push Morse off completely, and that was something he wasn't willing to do just yet. At least he wasn't the only one suffering. The front of Morse's trousers were strained and Thursday could feel the shape of his erection press against his belly.

"Fuck," Thursday murmured. "You're driving me crazy here..."

Morse's hand reached down between them, pressing his palm against Thursday's erection.

"Fuck me," he said.

"Oh my god," Thursday moaned. Morse was already undoing the front of Thursday's trousers. "What? Here? Now?"

"Now," reaffirmed Morse. "Use the oil."

It was awkward, messy, and it didn't help that neither of them wanted to move away from each other. As Morse prepared himself, Thursday continued to play with his wings, still amazed even now. They were soft but so immensely strong. The muscles beneath the feathers were firm and big. Thursday thought back to Morse flying and how effortless he made it look. Other winged individuals in Oxford didn't fly- they glided. They preferred to catch updrafts and let themselves be carry as far as it could take them. He's never seen anyone take off so seamlessly like Morse had.

Thursday was so deep into his own thoughts he almost didn't noticed Morse lowering himself on him.

Thursday gasped.

Morse's face was one of concentration as he continued downward, but his wings told everything. They flapped uselessly, air blowing up the scattered feathers on the ground. When he was finally full, the wings curled around them, encasing them both.

Though only a wall of feathers separated them from the outside, it felt like they were the only two in the world.

"You're incredible," Thursday said.

"You're wonderful," said Morse.

"I like begin cocooned in your wings," Thursday said. He brushed the back of his hand against the feathers. "You know... I've always wanted to know what this felt like."

"I know," said Morse. "Everyone does. But you're the only one who has never demanded it of me, or try to force me."

Thursday frowned. "Force?"

"It's not what you're thinking of."

He began to move. First they were slow, careful movements, trying to find his balance and the best way to bring them both pleasure. Thursday's hands were under his thighs, helping him along. Thursday was gritting his teeth, desperate not to thrust and loving every second of it. But after a couple of minutes of slow, deliberate motion, he gasped and his fingers tightened on Morse's thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

"Y-you can fuck me," Morse said. His face was flushed red. His prick was pressed against Thursday soft belly, making a mess out of his shirt.

Thursday didn't need to be told twice. He readjusted his grip on Morse's thighs and began fucking him earnestly. Praises tumbled out of his mouth without conscious thought.

"You're beautiful," he gasped. "God, you feel so good. Look at you. Incredible. You're perfect. You and your wings... absolutely perfect."

With tears running down Morse's blushing cheeks, he came. Morse arched his back, his wings unfurling, kicking up feathers and wind in the space of the bathroom. The sight of it all was too much for Thursday, and with one last thrust, he buried himself inside of Morse, his cock spurting hotly.

Once the last bits of pleasure finally soothed away, Thursday could feel his legs cramping from having the weight of a full grown man sitting on him. And yet he still could not bring himself to have Morse get off him.

Morse took a couple of breaths. "Sorry..."

"Sorry?" Thursday repeated. "For what?"

"For making a mess of your bathroom."

Indeed. There were feathers everywhere. On the floor, in the sink, sticking out from the folds of towels. It was going to take some time to clean it all up.

Thursday smiled up at him. "It's fine."


End file.
